Thoughtless
by theprofessorslove
Summary: Post Jump Push Fall. She saw him drifting away; or maybe he was already gone.


**_Thoughtless_**

She inwardly cringed at the sight before her; a motionless, emotionally comatose, utterly _pathetic,_ Woody. It wasn't supposed to be this way, she knew, and she couldn't help but wonder as to when everything had changed.

When had she become the strong one, the firm support for Woody to lean on in his times of need? Sure, she offered him some choice words of advice once in a while. She had taken care of him during the occasional flu. But Woody in a hospital bed? When had influenza morphed into a looming possibility of paralysis?

He slowly opened his eyes, and she instantly wished that he had kept them closed. It was now that she recognized the complete transformation, or downward spiral, of the easygoing, naïve Wisconsin detective that she had come to befriend, and maybe, in time, to love. The pure, striking crystalline was now cloudy and dull, and she couldn't help but think that he wasn't looking at her, lying immobile in that hospital bed. She saw him drifting away; or maybe he was already gone.

She had heard about the way people look when they're at peace with death. They'd accepted their fate, and coalesced apathy with resistance to create an infectious tranquility. Looking neither peaceful nor resistant, Woody had a nothingness quality to his salient features, a quiet anger towards his fate but yet a quiet anger towards anyone who interfered with it. Anger wouldn't have been the right word to describe the _body_ before her: hell, she would have embraced anger if that had made him more alive. The second he opened those eyes, she saw him in a way she never wanted to see any of her loved ones. She saw him in her morgue, on the table, in a meticulously clean white body bag, surrounded by the sterile, pungent smell of mortality. He was already dead.

"I thought I told you to leave," he croaked. She simultaneously wanted him to shut up, not make her live through this torture; and scream, show her that he cared about himself, her, and what _this_ could become.

"Who said I was here for you? There's a pretty attractive Alzheimer's patient down the hall, thank you very much." She knew he wouldn't laugh at her pathetic attempt at awkward humor, but she hoped she would provoke some sort of a response form him, even anger; something that required emotion and feeling. Something that made her believe that he was still alive, still in the hospital. She desperately wanted a reassurance to tell her that he was not one of the numerous bodies in her morgue.

Apparently, provoking response in this new Woody was not easy, as he shut his eyes once more and turned his head in a despondent indifference.

"I meant what I said, Woody."

The words sounded hollow, even to her, but she didn't know what other way to express her emotions. Before, her empty words had been enough. They had been more than enough; Woody tirelessly searched for them like a pirate pining for buried treasure.

"Jordan, can you honestly blame me for not believing you?"

_No, I can't, Woody, _she wanted to say. She wanted to come clean; tell him that she had spent nights by herself thinking of him while he was out socializing with prospective lovers. She wanted to tell him that he was the reason she had become this vigilante; that she respected his dedication, his morality, his _goodness_ so much that she tried to emulate it. She wanted to tell him that she, for the first time in her life, been rendered thoughtless when she found out he was fighting for his life, that her reason was no longer a means for impetus but inertia. She wanted to say this, but she knew that these things couldn't be spoken. She knew that these feelings couldn't be summarized by pretty, compact words. These things didn't work that way, especially with Woody. She knew that no matter what she said, he would never believe her without an inkling of doubt. She knew she was telling the truth, the surest of herself she'd ever been; but she also knew that trust wasn't a sentiment that could be caused by vacant promises and desperate wishes. She knew what she knew, and that would have to be enough.


End file.
